


When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

by MargaretKire



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: AU, Discussion of past violence, First Meeting, M/M, Temporary Blindness, chronic breathing issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 14:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11292588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire
Summary: Or, you know, pepper spray.Blake is incapacitated and recluse Bane tries to help.





	When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teacuphuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/gifts).



> This work is dedicated to teacuphuman, whose work I absolutely LOVE. Thank you, dear, for all you have done for this fandom.
> 
> Thank you to [harlanhardway](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Target44/pseuds/Harlanhardway) and [blakesparkles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blakesparkles/pseuds/blakesparkles) for the patient read-throughs and thoughtful comments.

Blake couldn’t even get that mad, not really. Yes, he felt like his eyes were boiling and, yes, it had been completely unnecessary for that girl to spray him _directly in the eyes_ when all he was trying to do was check up on one of the orphans from St. Swithins. He didn’t care _what_ was in her stupid oversize bag. He hadn’t even asked to look, but, because he was in his police uniform, in this neighborhood, in _this building in particular,_ everyone assumed he was there to cause trouble.

If he hadn’t been screaming in agony, he would have sighed. Sometimes he wanted to tell these kids, “Look, I’m one of you. I’m on _your_ fucking side.”

But nope, he couldn’t catch a break, not even as an adult. He wasn’t even thirty yet, which had seemed _ancient_ to teen-aged John Blake. And, oh god, why did this fucking stuff… Burn. So. Bad _._ It felt like his eye’s liquid cores were going up in a plume of steam. His eyelids kept clamping shut convulsively and he was choking and coughing, trying to clear his lungs.

The girl was sobbing, whether out of fear or because she had inhaled some of the fumes herself, and then she was shoving past and making a break for it down the hallway. He couldn’t see her - couldn’t see _anything -_ but he could hear her retreating footsteps.

Well, yay. Now he was alone and blind in his cop uniform on the wrong side of the tracks. Great. 

John stumbled back until he hit the opposite wall of the hallway, sliding down it until he was sitting on the mangy carpet. He couldn’t even find it in himself to keep screaming bloody murder. He let out a broken whine instead, completely overwhelmed for the moment by the intensity of the pain. 

As he continued to cough, sucking in oxygen only to inhale more of the slowly-dispersing cloud of pepper spray that still hung in the stagnant air, John thought he heard the sound of an apartment door opening farther down the hallway. He tensed. Well, he had been screaming his fool head off for a good twenty seconds, he shouldn’t be surprised that it had gotten someone’s attention. If it was a friendly, then he was in luck. They could call the station for him and have someone bring the capsicum-neutralizing wipes they kept in the patrol cars for getting the spray off skin, since it was not water soluble. 

Of course, there was every chance that the person now clearly making their way toward Blake was _not_ a friendly. John’s mind raced through all the options at his disposal. His gun, holstered, safety on, was right at his fingertips, but there wasn’t time to get it out before the person approaching - who was extremely close now and creepily still hadn’t said anything - could grab it out of his hand. He was a decent hand-to-hand fighter, though, of course, he needed his _eyes_ for that. He had a cellphone in his right-hand pocket, but, again, not only would the person be able to knock it away, he also had no idea how to turn on the voice activation without seeing the screen. 

 _Fuck,_ he really hoped this guy was a friendly. 

The heavy footsteps came to a stop right next to him. There was a pause of pointed silence while John continued hacking up his lungs and blinking furiously in a vain effort to see. He was about to try and stutter out something, a greeting of some sort - _Hey, buddy, you ever deal with a pepper-spray-infused-cop before?_ \- when his arms were gripped by two massive hands and he was being lifted to his feet like he weighed nothing. 

Giving a cry of protest, one that quickly degenerated into more coughing, John flailed against the iron hold. His foot made contact with a shin and there was a muffled grunt above John’s head. Then he was being frog-marched blindly down the hallway, back to where the feet had originated, the steel grip unrelenting around his biceps, his face on fire. 

 _Oh god,_ whoever this guy was, he was dragging John into an apartment. Blake was able to grab the door frame as his arm bumped into it. “Stop,” he wheezed. “What are you-” he couldn’t finish as he began coughing again, so hard that he was nearly gagging. His eyes and face hurt so much he could barely think. But he knew he had to get it together. He was being dragged, helpless, inside a private residence, where _anything_ could happen to him. He tried going for his gun with his free hand, but it was swatted away from his belt like he was a child reaching for a forbidden sweet. 

 _Jesus, this guy must be tall,_ John’s brain supplied, so helpfully, when a distorted voice came from way above his head. John couldn’t make out the words. Something was obviously blocking the dude’s mouth. Blake was about to try speaking again, finally feeling like he could get a breath in that wasn’t pure magma, when strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and popped his hand off the door frame in an easy tug. 

Blake’s stomach flipped as he heard the door to the hallway close and the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place. Then the guy was back, his massive hand around John’s arm, steering him through the apartment. His foot hit against what felt like a chair, his shoes treading on what seemed to be hardwood flooring. The sound of their footsteps changed in another second, tile instead of hardwood, and John guessed that they were now in a kitchen. He thrashed his arms out but couldn’t feel anything around him until he made contact with a torso made out of what was either solid muscle or bricks. 

The giant/minotaur/cave troll attempted to speak to him again, but John still couldn’t make out what he was saying over the sound of his own panicked gasping and whatever it was that was covering the guy’s mouth. He shook his head to indicate that he couldn't understand and got a muffled grunt as an answer. Then there were thick fingers pulling at his shirt, untucking it from his belt. 

John gave a shout, trying to twist out of the stranger’s hands. The man grabbed his upper arms and held him fast, not _quite_ bruising, until John stopped thrashing. He was furiously blinking, trying to clear his eyes, though he was still completely blind. 

The man in front of him shifted one hand away from Blake and, a moment later, his voice came clearly, though very labored, “Your shirt is doused in pepper spray and must be removed.” The voice was accented and deep. John stopped fighting and let himself be stripped of his uniform shirt, though his undershirt was left on. Then he was being herded over to what he discovered was the kitchen sink when he flailed his hands out to check. 

There was the sound of rummaging through a cupboard and labored breathing, once again obscured by something. John heard the snap of a cap being opened and then liquid was being rubbed all over his face. For a moment the burning increased, but then it cooled and the fire grew more tolerable. 

The faucet was turned on, running loudly into the basin in the quiet room. John could tell that the man was checking the temperature by the sound of the water being splashed around and the solid presence leaning over the counter next to him. He heard the whine of a nozzle being pulled forward and then the patter of the water changed as it ran through the sprayer. 

A big hand pressed between his shoulder blades, getting John to lean over the sink, and lukewarm water sluiced over his forehead and down his face. John reached up to scrub, but his hand was intercepted in a bear-like grip and brought back down to clutch at the edge of the counter. 

The guy lathered him up and rinsed off, over and over. Even his hair got washed with whatever the miracle stuff was. John had no sense of smell, his mucus membranes still melted from the spray, so he couldn’t tell what the stuff was by scent. The heat had banked down to around sunburn temperature by the fifth or sixth rinse. 

His hands were next, all the way up to the elbow, where his short-sleeved uniform shirt had left his skin exposed. He was handed a towel to dry his face, and the man moved whatever the obstacle was from his mouth to rumble, “Pat your skin, don’t rub,” before he washed his own hands, moving John gently to the side so he could have full access to the sink. 

Blake dabbed at his face gingerly, the oils from the spray igniting again when he was too rough. He was handed a fresh towel and then led to a different room, still unable to open his eyes very far, and helped bodily onto a sofa. He heard the other man settle across from him and then several sounds he couldn’t identify. After another moment, there was a click and the low buzz of a machine of some sort. 

The other man took several deep breaths, clearly audible now, his lungs creaking and wheezing ominously. After a few minutes, during which John wondered if he should try bolting blindly for the door like a headless chicken _,_ the painful breathing across from him evened out into a raspy huff, much less tortured-sounding than before. 

“My apologies, Officer,” came the deep voice, still muffled, but much clearer. “I did not intend to alarm you.” The man paused and took a deep breath, one that sounded smoother. His voice, too, was gaining strength. “How are you feeling now?” 

“Better,” John rasped. He cleared his throat several times. “Still can’t see.” 

“Keep blinking your eyes,” the man instructed. “The blindness will soon pass.” 

John did as ordered, rapidly blinking as tears flowed down his cheeks and he wiped them away with the towel. “Thanks,” he said after a moment. “What was that soap stuff you used on me?” 

“It is designed to neutralize the burning oils in pepper spray. Some people use shampoos and detergents, but this is much more effective.” 

“Not that I’m complaining, but why do you have something like that?” John asked, still blinking quickly. He was just starting to see fuzzy shapes in the gloom. 

“I have learned that it is always good to be prepared for any eventuality.” John nodded, realizing from the tone that this was as much of an answer as he was going to get. 

He blinked and dried his eyes over and over until he could finally start to make out the man sitting opposite him. He was just an alarmingly large lump at first, the shadowed form of his body melding with an armchair. The mechanical hum was coming from a separate, smaller blob on an end table. Slowly, the world came into focus through his running eyes, and the smaller, humming shape turned out to be a rectangular device sprouting a clear plastic tube that was cycling some sort of medical treatment up to a mask fastened over his rescuer’s face. 

Blake blinked at the bald head and truly enormous shoulders of the man in front of him. He was monstrous. Not ugly. Actually, Blake thought that under the mask this guy might be sort of the opposite of ugly. Of course, Blake couldn’t be certain of _anything,_ given his own watering eyes and the low lighting of the room. The curtains were closed, letting in only a few rays of sunlight between the gaps. 

He _could_ make out what looked to be a gas mask sitting next to the breathing machine, and guessed that the mask had been responsible for the garbled speech earlier. It was a heavy-duty model, similar to the type issued to SWAT. John’s left eyebrow rose as he studied it from across the gap between their seats. A person didn’t just pick up one of those from a corner store. He gave the man a longer, more considered look. The giant followed his gaze and returned the raised brow. 

“I came by it legally,” the man rumbled, his voice clear now, but still deep and lilting. English was obviously not his native tongue. John couldn’t pinpoint the accent. 

John shrugged. “Don’t see civilians with those very often,” he remarked, keeping his tone light. Clear, piercing eyes met his from where the man sat, regarding him. He reached out a slow hand, his thick fingers dexterous as he flipped the switch on the machine and the room plunged into silence. 

Pulling off the small plastic mask that connected to the tubing, the man asked, “Who said I was a civilian?” His tone sounded teasing, but his mouth remained unsmiling. 

His mouth. 

John felt his jaw go slack for a moment before he snapped it shut. That mouth... it was… well it was _heartbreaking,_ is what it was. His lips were perfect on the right side of his face- plush and full, wrinkled slightly where they were pressed together. On the left was pure devastation. 

Blake had no idea what could even leave scars like that. They wrapped back from his mouth, just missing his eye, and reached nearly to his ear on the left side. It wasn’t a knife scar or a bullet wound, though there were some edges that looked sharp, like a blade had been dragged over the flesh. The skin looked melted, raw. 

John realized that he was staring and jerked his eyes up to meet the other man’s steely glaze. The friendly light had gone out of his eyes and John was suddenly afraid. The giant no longer had an air of fragility shrouding him that had been caused by the mask and the machine. He was sitting, tall and regal, breathing normally and staring John down, daring him to comment on his face. John never would have linked _this_ man with the labored wheezing from earlier. 

“You-” John started, swallowing hard at the look on the man’s face. “You actually put your health at risk to help me, didn’t you?” 

Something softened in the man’s eyes, though the frown remained. “I did what was necessary. There are others in this building that would have taken advantage of the situation, had I left you in the hallway alone.” 

John nodded, wiping away a few more stinging tears. “Well, I appreciate it. I shouldn’t have come up here in uniform. Not alone, anyway. I was just hoping to check in with someone real quick. Not even here on police business,” Blake snorted. 

“I’m not sure that coming here in civilian clothes would have improved your chances of going unnoticed by a particular set of the buildings tenants,” the man answered, something like humor creeping into his eyes. 

“Too obviously a cop, huh?” John asked, shaking his head and looking around, glad that he could finally see his surroundings. 

The man shrugged his huge shoulders. “Not my only meaning, but you can take it that way if you wish, Officer…?” 

“Blake. John Blake.” On instinct he reached out to shake the giant’s hand, only to have it swallowed up in a warm, calloused palm. “And you are…?” 

“Bane.” 

“Mr. Bane?” 

“No, just Bane, Officer Blake.” 

An awkwardness developed between them in the continued silence. John stood to leave, just then noticing a pile of weight-training equipment in one corner of the dim apartment. Well, that explained a lot. 

Bane rose from the armchair and walked back to the kitchen, moving surprisingly gracefully for someone so large, and returned with John’s uniform shirt encased in several layers of plastic bags. 

“I am not sure if the garment is salvageable,” Bane said, his eloquent voice sounding too formal with the package of Blake’s ruined shirt dangling between them. 

John huffed and took the bag gingerly. “I think I can spring for a new one.” 

“I would offer you one of my own shirts to wear home, however…” Bane gestured to himself, indicating that he had also noticed that he was about twice the size of the cop. 

“It’s fine,” John answered, trying not to get lost in the swells and shadows of Bane’s chest. He cleared his throat and looked up with effort. “This will be fine,” he said, making a motion at his plain undershirt. “It’s warm out and I was heading home anyway.” Bane nodded silently. John shifted on his feet. “Alright, well, thanks again,” he said and Bane reached for the door, holding it open for him. 

John stumbled through it and down the hallway, looking back once to see Bane watching after him. 

 

* * *

 

John didn’t try finding Alex again - the kid that had aged out of the orphanage - until about three weeks later. This time he went dressed in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. He checked himself over in the mirror, trying to decide if he came across too much as a cop, but then decided that there was nothing that could be done about his close-cropped hair, and that was probably the biggest give away. 

He walked up the four flights of steps to Alex’s floor, not willing to trust the old elevator. That thing looked like a death trap. 

As he made his way down the hallway to the apartment door, two guys stomped up the stairs right behind him, talking animatedly to one another. John glanced over his shoulder, not wanting to turn his back on them, and saw the men stop on the landing and look his way, falling silent. They appeared to be several years younger than him, but  a lot worse for wear. One of them elbowed the other who replied a drawled, “Yep.” Then they each gave John a weird smile and continued on up the stairs. Blake sighed and knocked on Alex’s door. 

He waited, listening intently for any noise within. It seemed quiet. There was a TV droning on in the apartment across the hall but, other than that, the corridor was dead. John thought about writing a note, but decided against it. He didn’t want some random weirdo getting a hold of his cell number. Especially a pepper spray wielding weirdo. He wiped a hand over his face, the memory of capsaicin lava practically flaying his skin off while he stood screaming in this very spot, hitting him with twenty/twenty clarity. 

There was no guarantee that Alex still lived here, anyway. 

John sighed, wondering if he should try back at the boy’s home. Maybe Alex had shown up recently. John was just trying to confirm that the boy was still alive and had money for food. He was a troubled kid who didn’t always take his medication. John knew first hand that leaving the somewhat stable environment of the orphanage was hard enough to deal with, let alone trying to cope with an emotional disorder. 

He gave up and turned away from the door, only to be blocked from the stairs by the two guys from before. They were just standing there, smirking at John, eyeing him up and down. 

Blake tried to stay calm, to show no emotion on his face. He knew that his eyebrows tended to give him away, the traitors, so he made a conscious effort to relax and not let them shoot up in alarm. 

John had one of those faces that people seemed to find approachable. Most of the time, it came in handy for police work because people felt comfortable talking to him. However, because he _also_ had a young, ‘nice boy’ look to him, some people felt it was their duty as card-carrying asswipes to try and put him in his place. Bastards. 

He looked at the body-language of the guys in front of him, and yep, they didn’t intend to let him pass without harassing him thoroughly. He breathed in through his nose. He would probably have to fight, _dammit._  

Sauntering towards the guys, a fake smile plastered on his face, John got close enough to see the switchblade Goon Number One had in his fingers, flipping it around idly. Goon Number Two seemed to be sporting a nice, shiny gun belt. Well, shit. 

John put plan B into action, swiveling to the right and knocking hard on Bane’s door. Goons One and Two looked alarmed, then terrified, as the door suddenly swung inwards and Bane stood there, gas mask on, his eyes burning holes through the Goons as he took in the situation, brow furrowed. 

Wow, Blake thought. Just. Wow. 

The Goons scattered like cockroaches, and Blake heard Bane give a huff behind the mask. He turned to John, giving his form a quick once-over before stepping back into his apartment. Instead of closing the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder, giving Blake a half-formed wave, motioning him to follow, before disappearing into the gloom of his living room. 

Slowly, like he was walking into a lion’s den, John stepped inside and hesitantly pulled the door closed. After a moment’s hesitation, he slid the deadbolt home. 

He found Bane in the same chair he had been sitting in before, taking off the gas mask and setting it aside. John walked closer, eyeing the mask now that he could actually _see_ it clearly. “That’s a very effective prop for scaring away Goons.” 

Bane shrugged. “It is not a prop. And those men have other associates in the building. You may have fought your way past them, only to encounter others before reaching safety.” 

John shuddered and looked away. “Well, you did try and warn me,” he muttered to himself. 

“They shouldn’t bother you now that they associate you with me,” Bane rumbled, “if you should chose to visit again.” John looked up at him sharply. “I assume that your friend means a great deal to you,” Bane explained, “since you decided to come looking for them again after the last... incident. Therefore, I conclude that you will continue to seek out your associate. It will be easier for you now.” 

“Oh,” John said, oddly disappointed. Annoyed with himself for thinking that Bane had been inviting John back to see _him_ , he shrugged and tried to play it off. “My friend’s name is Alex. He recently left the boy’s home where I-” John paused. “Where I grew up.” Real smooth. “I wanted to check on him. Make sure he’s okay. Even more now that I know those guys are around.” 

“Alex?” Bane asked. “Tall and thin? Red hair?” 

John’s hopes immediately skyrocketed. “Yes. Always carries an old army knapsack around with patches on it?” 

Bane nodded. “I know the boy of whom you speak. You will be relieved to hear that he moved out of the building nearly a month ago.” 

“Oh,” John said. He was glad for Alex, but that meant there was no reason to come back. “Do you have any idea where he moved?” 

“I’m sorry, I do not.” 

John just nodded. “Okay.” He stared around the apartment for a moment, looking over at the weights, which he was certain had grown in both size and number since last time. He was pretty sure some of them weighed more than he did. Then his eyes caught on the end table where the breathing machine still sat, a heap of books stacked up next to it. 

“You read?’ John asked, internally flinching at his own question. 

“Yes,” Bane answered. It seemed a somewhat encouraging _yes,_ so Blake soldiered on. 

“Do you watch TV?” he tried, making a vague gesture to the flat screen mounted to the wall, blocked by several mini-towers of books. 

“Not really,” came the accented reply. Where was Bane from, anyway? “I find the entertainment on American television to be too centered on Western culture and ideology,” Bane continued. “But with books, the viewpoints are much more varied, and to me, more honest.” 

John scrunched up his eyes. He realized that he’d lost control of his eyebrows. He tried to school them back to neutral. “So I guess that video games are out, then?” 

Bane let out a chuckle, so soft it was like purring. “I have no objection to games when both sides are aware that they are playing one, Officer Blake.” 

“John,” he reminded Bane, distractedly tugging on his fingers. “I just, you know, when I’m stuck inside for awhile, video games help me from going nuts.” 

Bane’s eyes darkened and he turned away from John, shielding the scared side of his face. “One might say I have been ‘stuck inside for awhile,’” he replied. There was a pause during which John shuffled his feet, unsure. Bane stood. “If you ever come to this building again, make sure you have your gun with you, Officer Blake.” He walked to the door and wrenched it open, the hinges protesting.

John stepped out quickly and made his way to the stairs. Once again, Bane watched him go. 

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until he stumbled across the flier in the precinct that he seriously thought about Bane again. Sure, he _almost_ thought about him a lot, like when he was driving on the highway and he passed the exit to Bane’s neighborhood, or when one of the other officers talked about something going down near where the man lived. 

But the bright pink paper typed out in comic sans announcing an original Nintendo Playstation for sale by one of the officers had Blake pausing. He ripped the flier down and took it over to the guy’s desk and wrote him a check. The next day there was an extremely outdated console and two controllers sitting in a Target bag on his desk. The officer had even thrown in Super Mario Bros./Duck Hunter and Zelda. John grinned. 

 

* * *

  

His next day off, Blake knocked on Bane’s door, trying to ignore the gun he had strapped to the small of his back under his casual clothes. He glanced nervously down the hall, but it was ten in the morning and the coast was clear. 

The door opened and the mountain that was Bane stood there, a simple surgical mask over his nose and mouth this time. He looked down at John over the white fabric, his oddly silver-dark eyes taking him in. After a moment, Bane grunted a nod and stepped back, allowing Blake to enter. 

John shuffled inside with his gift, feeling awkward now that he was actually here and had to explain why he was giving Bane an ancient gaming system. He came to a stop in Bane’s dim living room and turned, holding out the bag with a jerk of his arm. 

“Got you this,” John muttered, wishing that he could be a little more eloquent. Bane took the plastic bag from him, the rustling loud as he peered inside. John looked up when the other man barked a laugh. Their eyes met, and John could tell that Bane was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. He handed the bag back to John and gestured at the TV. 

“You will have to install it,” Bane explained, as he tugged off the mask and set it by his breathing machine. “I do not know how.” He watched as John fumbled the cords into the correct places and set the console on the coffee table. He unwound the controllers and handed one to Bane once he had them connected. The games were still in the bag, and John pulled them out and held them up for Bane to see. 

“Do you know either of these?” Blake asked, a softness creeping into his eyes at the sight of the huge man bent low over the games to read the titles. 

“I have seen this character, I believe,” Bane said, pointing at Super Mario Bros. “When I was a teenager, I would see some of my peers wearing shirts with this image. We didn’t have a lot of Western merchandise available to us, but sometimes items would make it through to our local shops, or missionaries and the like would bring in bags of clothes for distribution.” 

“Where did you grow up?” John hazarded. 

Bane shrugged. “Far from here. Another life.” 

John spent the next ten minutes explaining the basics of Super Mario Bros. to Bane, while playing the first level to show him how everything worked. Then he handed the controller over to Bane, who made it somewhat awkwardly halfway through the level before forgetting that he had to avoid the turtles. As the familiar music played out a dead Mario, John laughed at Bane’s indignant noise, turning back to the screen to play as Luigi for his turn. 

John made sure he died at the end of the dungeon level so that Bane could have his turn again. He watched the man hunker over the controller, which was dwarfed in his large hands, his face a picture of determination as he carefully hopped over each obstacle, smiling when he successfully got the mushroom that made Mario grow bigger. 

Two hours later, John had to admit that he’d created a monster. Bane sat in his armchair, and John sat on the couch, both turned nearly sideways in their seats to see the TV, as they took turns playing the game. The coffee table now held a jug of iced tea, a small bowl of lemon wedges, and both of their glasses, the condensation sliding down to pool on the coasters. 

Bane had disappeared again into the kitchen while John was taking his turn in the castle, and returned with a type of pastry he didn’t know the name of. When he asked, Bane said something unpronounceable and then smirked at the look on John’s face. It turned out to be really good, not very sweet, but rich and buttery. John ate several pieces while Bane took his turn looking for Princess Peach. 

It was well into the afternoon by the time John finally stood up and stretched. He had errands to run and laundry to do before it got too late. He smiled over at Bane, who was setting down his controller and cracking his neck. 

“This was fun,” John said, meaning it. 

“I will practice,” Bane announced solemnly. “Then, the next time we play, you won’t have to purposefully end your turn by pretending to miss jumps and walking into enemies.” 

John’s eyes widened. “You knew?” 

“But of course. You are obviously well-versed in this type of entertainment, and your game play is swift and efficient.” Bane picked up the shiny gold plastic square of the Zelda cartridge. “Do you also play this one?” he asked. 

John nodded. “They have new versions of both of these games now,” he said. “Maybe, if you’d like, I could bring over my system and show you some of the new stuff? This is pretty vintage,” John explained, gesturing to the old Nintendo. 

Bane studied him for a minute, his face unreadable. Then his mouth moved in the smallest of smiles, perfect on the right, ruined on the left. It did something to John, that smile. 

“If you would like to do so, I would be amenable to trying another entertainment gaming system, Officer Blake.” The giant undercut the seriousness of his words by smirking ever so slightly in the policeman’s direction. 

John gave a small snort, shaking his head. “Hmm, I’ll see what I can do.” Bane walked him to the door, slipping on the surgical mask before pulling it open. Once again, he watched John until he was out of sight.

 

* * *

 

“Who’s this guy you’re spending all of your free time with?” Officer Selina Kyle asked him several weeks later, as they grabbed bagels from a shop by the station. 

John shrugged, playing it cool. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Selina gave him a look. John thought that no one that sweet-faced should be able to pull off that much derisiveness with a single glance. “You’re going to pretend that you haven’t been mooning over some guy for the past month?” 

“I’m not _mooning_ over anyone, _Mom,”_ he returned, breaking out in a small laugh at the expression on her face. “I might be _hanging out_ with a friend on my days off. That’s it though. Sorry to ruin your gossip mongering.” 

Selina’s eyes narrowed down to slits as she grabbed her to-go bag and pulled more than her fair share of napkins from the dispenser. “Okay,” she said, obviously gearing up for war as they walked back to the station. “Then if you’re not seeing anyone, you’re free to go on a double date with me Friday.” 

“Nope.” 

“Why not?” 

“Game night on Friday.” 

“There are no games this Friday, I _do_ follow sports, you know,” Selina spat back. “Nice try, though.” 

 _“Video_ game night,” John said.

 

“Oh really?” she asked, getting a gleam in her eye. “With who? Anyone I know?” 

John sighed as he yanked the station door open, letting Selina slip through first, not that she deserved it. “No,” he gritted out. They made it to their desks, setting down their coffees and bagels. Selina gave him a little smirk as she wound her long hair up into a messy bun for work. 

“So, I need to meet him, obviously,” she purred. Blake stared at her stonily. “Invite him out with us. It can still be a double date.” 

John’s annoyed response died before he could utter it. He sighed instead. “Not that I’d ask him on a date, because it’s so _not_ like that, but I don’t think he could go.” 

Selina’s face went serious. “House arrest?” she asked with such genuine concern that John snorted. 

“No, Selina, he’s not on house arrest.” 

“Then why-” 

“He’s got something wrong with his lungs,” John said. Even though he’d been over to Bane’s for video gaming several times by now, they still hadn’t talked about what was wrong with him. “I don’t think he can leave his apartment without a breathing mask.” 

“Oh.” Selina took that in for several moments while she sipped her coffee and nibbled on her cinnamon crunch bagel. “So, could he come out _with_ the mask? I mean, we could do something that didn’t involve food…” 

“Thanks,” Blake said, meaning it. “But like I said, we’re not dating. Just playing video games together.” 

“Uh-huh,” Selina said, in a scathingly unimpressed tone. “Well, if you ever change your mind and decide that maybe you are dating, _just a little bit_ , the offer stands.” 

“Thanks,” John sighed, ignoring her so that he could get at his bagel before it was stone cold.

 

* * *

 

They sat together on the couch, Bane having moved it to face the TV after that first gaming session, so that they could see the screen without breaking their necks. That was also the reasoning behind why they both tended to sit towards the middle. Just eye-line. Nothing to do with the fact that sometimes their legs or arms would touch. 

Bane always sat on John’s left, as though it could somehow protect him from the scars, and when John glanced over at him, his face illuminated by the TV screen, he felt a frizzle of electric current down his spine. He wasn’t sure how it was possible for a person to be both so beautiful and so masculine at the same time. Everything about the man, from the shape of his skull to the tendons jumping in his hands on the controller, was harmonious to the whole. John couldn’t help but wonder what Bane’s life was like before the scars and whether or not he’d ever been able to go outside without worrying about his lungs. 

John turned his attention back to the screen. He’d had to concentrate more and more to keep up with Bane, who he was _sure_ was practicing when he wasn’t there. John had thought of the games as little more than a distraction for Bane, one that also conveniently offered an excuse for him to visit, but then he had introduced Bane to first-person shooters and the man had taken to them like a duck to water. Honestly, it was a little bit disturbing how good he was at combat. However, after two sessions of hunting down and shooting bad guys, Bane requested a change, and so Blake brought over Monster Hunter. It quickly became his favorite, and neither of them mentioned the relief Bane seemed to feel when he was hunting down imaginary creatures instead of human beings. 

“So, we finally got the Goons from the fifth floor,” John said, when there was a pause in the game. He was drinking a beer and Bane, of all things, was drinking hot tea. Bane shifted the fortress of muscle that was his body, setting down his cup and turning more towards John, lifting an eyebrow in question. “We started investigating them after the, uh, _incident_ in the hall,” John said, and Bane nodded. 

John looked down, distracting himself by sipping his beer. He felt oddly nervous in the face of those piercing eyes. The feeling of wanting Bane’s approval was a new sensation for him. Unless it was Commissioner Gordon or Father Reilly, Blake had long ago given up caring what other people thought of him. Sure, in those early days of foster homes, he had cared _a lot,_ despite his anger, wanting the adults in his life and his temporary brothers and sisters to approve of him. But in the end, it had been easier not to care as much, to just get on with it and make something of himself despite a lack of any warm affection from the people in his life. 

“They are not good men,” Bane said, after John had been silent for too long. “The tenants will be much better off without their presence.” 

John nodded. “It was the drug charges that brought them in. But once the search was done on their apartments, there were a lot of charges added.” John shuddered at the memory of some of the things they’d discovered on the men’s computers. “They won’t be getting out for a long time.” 

Bane grunted in what sounded like approval. “You’re good at your job.” 

John shrugged, bashful. Why did praise coming from those damaged lips make him feel so good? “I believe in protecting people.” 

“You’re a good man, Officer Blake.” 

When John finally left that evening, Bane’s watchful eyes on his back as he hopped down the stairs, he felt like he was flying.

 

* * *

 

The guilt of having gotten an intellectually superior man addicted to video games overwhelmed John enough that, the next week, he found himself carrying a stack of books rather than a stack of game cartridges up to Bane’s floor. They were a mixed assortment; some from John’s apartment and a few that he had gotten from the sale bin of the book store. It was a mishmash of science fiction, cult classics, history, photography, comics, graphic novels, and even a few Calvin and Hobbes. John had no idea what he was doing or if Bane would like any of what he had picked out for him, but, at the very least, maybe they could sit around and read comic books for a few hours. 

He was so distracted with trying to keep all the books together in a plastic bag that ripped more every time he shifted, he didn’t notice at first that it was not Bane who had opened the door. His first instinct, once he had looked up into a pair of blue eyes staring back at him from his own eye level, was to apologize for getting the wrong apartment. He rechecked the number to see if maybe he was on the wrong floor and realized that, no, this _was_ Bane’s apartment. He looked back at the man, who was gazing at him with the same inscrutable look that Bane had worn the first few times they had met. 

“You are Officer John Blake,” the man said. His accent, while not matching Bane’s exactly, had a similar flavor. 

John nodded mutely, wondering who the man was. He didn’t look like Bane enough to be a brother, though the two men seemed to be roughly the same age, which was a few years older than Blake. He was a good-looking man in a world-weary sort of a way. He had a short beard, his hair was a little longer than John’s and had a slight curl to it. His forehead was high and his eyelids were heavy, giving him a hypnotic, intelligent look with the way his soulful eyes took in John’s face. 

“I am Barsad,” the man said, his face never changing expression. “Bane is not well.” 

John’s first selfish impulse was to say that Bane should have called him, but before the idiotic words could leave his mouth, he realized that he had never given Bane his number. He had always just shown up, taking for granted that Bane would be there. Because where else would he be? 

Blake felt shame coloring his cheeks, his armload of books seeming even more ridiculous. Who was he, that he thought he could just show up whenever he wanted, like a lost puppy? He didn’t even have the good grace to call first and ask if it was a good time. This man, Barsad, was obviously the real friend, the one that Bane called when he was sick. 

“What’s the matter with him?” John asked, worry overshadowing his embarrassment. “Is it his lungs?” 

Barsad nodded, then turned his head for a moment, as though listening to something from within the apartment that John couldn’t hear. 

“He wants you to come in,” Barsad said, and John was unable to discern if there was either approval or irritation in the man’s manner as he led him over to the couch. Bane was laying prone on the cushions, his head and back propped up by the arm of the couch and several pillows, the breathing mask on and the machine humming on the nearby table. It was shocking to see him so vulnerable-looking, though John knew that, even as weak as he appeared, he would still be able to reach out and snap John’s spine with one hand and not even get off the couch to do it, cruddy lungs or not. 

“Please tell me you didn’t get pepper sprayed by some nervous teenager,” John said, banishing all traces of pity from his face, knowing that Bane would hate to be thought of as weak. 

Bane gave a creaky bark of a laugh, shaking his head slightly against the pillows. “I’m not the one fond of looking for trouble, Officer Blake. That proud distinction belongs to you alone.” His voice was whisper, broken sounding, but the words were clear enough. John rolled his eyes in mock offence and Bane chuckled deeply, a rumble more in his chest than in his voice. 

John glanced up then, and saw that the look on Barsad’s face had changed dramatically. Instead of a blank expression, he appeared almost awed as his eyes flashed to Bane and then up to John. There was a sudden look of hope there. John had to drop his eyes. 

“I brought a you a _shitload_ of books,” John sighed, finally setting the heavy bag down on the coffee table before it decided to rip apart completely and drop heavy tomes on his foot. “Some of them are just silly, and some of them you’ve probably read before… but I thought you might like them.” John stopped short, just thinking of something. “Oh my god, are these going to affect your breathing? I didn’t even think of that until right now. I don’t think any of them are musty, but some of them are new and might have a chemical smell-” 

“It’s fine,” Bane said, halting him. “They shouldn’t be a problem. And if any of them are, I will simply wrap them in plastic and give them back to you.” 

John agreed that was logical. He still tried not to feel two inches tall. 

“Show me what you brought,” Bane said, and John sat on the sturdy coffee table next to the pile of books and started prattling on about why he had chosen each one. He took note of any Bane seemed particularly interested in. Classic sci fi, graphic novels, and comic books made it very high on the list, it seemed. 

Barsad remained quiet, letting the two of them talk while he drifted around in the background, making tea and preparing something in the kitchen that started to smell really good after a while. He came back into the living room when the machine’s cycle ended, producing a stethoscope from a bag on the table, listened to Bane breathe in deep a few times, then broke a glass vial of some clear liquid into the top compartment of the machine and started it up again. He did it so quickly, neither Bane nor John felt the need to halt their conversation. 

When the other man had vanished back into the kitchen, John leaned forward and whispered, “That guy is like a magician… or a ninja.” Bane gave a small, slow smile behind the clear mask. 

“He is a man of many talents.” 

“Is he cooking? It smells amazing.” 

“He will be happy to hear you say so.” 

“Am I allowed to stay for dinner?” Blake joked, before stilling, suddenly unsure. He had showed up, unannounced, while Bane was obviously having some sort of relapse or attack. _Yes,_ Bane had asked him to come in and, _yes,_ they had been talking for close to an hour now, but that didn’t mean he had intended him to stay all night. 

Then there was Barsad, with his soulful eyes and quick hands. John had no idea what the two men were to each other. Barsad had touched Bane so easily, obviously familiar with his medical routine. For all John knew, they could be close. _Really_ close. They could be _together._ They probably _were_ together. 

The whole situation took on a different light- John had barged in on a domestic routine, interrupting their time together. Hell, Barsad was even making Bane _dinner,_ and here John was, hinting around to be invited to stay. He felt like a jackass. 

“Just kidding,” he tried, standing up and knocking over a neatly stacked pile of books. Bending over to pick them up, he said, “I should let you guys have your dinner in peace. Let me know if you like any of the series books or comics that I brought, and I’ll pick you up the next ones. Uh, here, let me write down my number, and you can text me a good time to stop by.” 

John grabbed a pen from the side table and hurriedly scribbled his name and cell number inside the cover of Watchmen (to his credit, it already had an inscription, so it wasn’t _him_ devaluing it with his chicken scratch), and then set it on top of the stack he had just reassembled, trying not to knock it over again. 

“Stay for dinner,” Bane said, his voice a bit stronger now with the second treatment cycling in his lungs. 

“You weren’t expecting me. And you’re not feeling well,” John said, just wishing that he could get to the door so that he could escape. 

“If I let the state of my health dictate every action, I would never get up in the mornings, Officer Blake. Barsad is making enough for all of us.” 

“But-” 

“John.” Blake quit his fidgeting and looked at the man on the couch. “Unless you honestly have somewhere else to be, please stay for dinner.” They studied one another for a long moment, and John could suddenly see past the mass of muscle, the intensely burning eyes and intimidating face. He saw someone who was lonely and kind, hurt, damaged. Someone who, as far as John knew, had only one person to look after him when he got sick. Bane may have almost _died_ during his last episode for all John knew, as he had never even _bothered_ to give the man his phone number. This man who was shut in, kept apart. Who lived in this dark apartment and practiced playing video games so that he could keep up with John whenever he decided to drop in unannounced at the convenience of his own schedule. Blake felt something roll over in his stomach, hitting him hard.

“Okay,” he managed. “Yeah, sure. I’d love to stay for dinner.”

 

* * *

 

John ended up in the kitchen after that, under the premise of helping, though he wound up nursing a beer while he watched Barsad make flat bread on a cast iron griddle. Barsad rolled out the dough with a plain rolling pin that looked more like a table leg than a cooking instrument, and placed them, one at a time, on the hot griddle. As soon as the bread puffed up, he flipped it right onto the open flame of the gas burner he had going next to the griddle. He waited for it to form charred spots before tossing it in a dish with the others and brushing the top with fresh garlic butter. It was a well-orchestrated dance, one that the man seemed to be able to do without thinking much about it, as he chatted softly with John while his hands moved.

“How has he been lately?” Barsad asked, rolling dough into a flat round. “His lungs… has he had any attacks as bad as this one?”

“Well, there was the one when we met,” John said, hiding his sheepish grin by taking a sip of beer. John was surprised that Barsad had to ask after Bane’s health. Maybe they weren’t as close as John had assumed. “He told you about it?”

Barsad got a hint of a smile on his face, his eyes sparkling under their heavy lids. “He may have mentioned it, yes.” 

“Since then, I haven’t seen him use the machine.” 

“That doesn’t mean he hasn’t been doing his treatments before you come over or after you leave. Or on the days you aren’t here,” Barsad pointed out. 

“Yeah,” John admitted, grudgingly. “But we don’t talk about it, so,” he shrugged. “Are you a doctor?” 

“Of a sort,” Barsad answered lightly, grabbing a piece of toasted flat bread off the flames with tongs. “I learned basic field medicine, just enough to keep us alive during the war.” 

“Oh,” John responded. They were veterans. That explained a lot, actually. It definitely explained where the gas mask had come from. “Which war?” 

Barsad eyed him cautiously before adding a fresh round of dough to the griddle. “Not any war that you were likely to hear about in the States.” 

 _Oh._  

John wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just watched silently while the other man finished up the bread and began scooping a heavily-spiced _something_ into a serving bowl. He passed the finished bowls to John, who carried them out to the table one by one so that he didn’t drop anything. 

Bane’s breathing treatment finished soon after, and he joined them at the table, his lungs seeming to cooperate for the moment. The two ex-soldiers showed John how to eat using the flat bread, and then teased him for flushing red after taking a bite of the main dish. Barsad took pity on him, handing him a yogurt sauce that cut the heat and allowed him to eat the insanely spicy food. 

“How is this any different from pepper spray?” John grumbled, and the other two men chuckled, eating their portions without so much as a bead of sweat. 

“I made it much milder than usual, with your Western sensibilities in mind,” Barsad informed John, who just scowled at him. 

“It’s good, I just wish that I could actually _taste_ it through all the burning agony.” Barsad gave John a look, and Bane just smiled, holding one hand up in front of his face while he ate. 

They talked a little, and John was given to understand that the two men were longtime friends and brothers-in-arms. They had come to the States over ten years prior, Bane going first to get a badly-needed surgery, and Barsad following when he got his papers sorted out. Blake didn’t ask what he meant by “sorted out,” and the way the two friends quickly passed over the topic, he decided it would be unwise to pry. 

Bane had bought his apartment back when the neighborhood, though not upscale, hadn’t been in the state it was now. Barsad traveled for work often, though he had a studio apartment nearby. Something loosened around John’s throat when he learned that they didn’t live together, though he instantly felt guilty. Bane was alone. John shouldn’t be territorial over him- they had met just over a month ago, for fuck’s sake. _He_ was the interloper here, not Barsad. John tuned in to the conversation just in time to see Barsad’s raised eyebrow, before his face slipped back into neutral. 

After dinner, John helped clean up the kitchen, this time with Bane leaning in the doorway, sipping his ever-present tea and watching the other two men with a fond expression. Barsad said something to Bane every now and then in a different language, and a few times it looked like Bane was embarrassed, replying to his friend in clipped tones, which just made Barsad laugh. 

They sat in the living room for about an hour after that, the TV on in the background, turned down low, while Bane and John read graphic novels and Barsad looked through the photography books. They talked about their respective reading material a few times, but for the most part it was quiet, just the hushed sounds of an old movie and the occasional flash of color as the station ran commercials every twenty minutes. 

When John stretched and stood up, getting ready to go, Barsad followed suit, and Bane watched after both of them as they ambled down the hallway. They made it outside before Barsad turned to John and said calmly, “Bane and I are not lovers.” He smiled at the gobsmacked expression on John’s face and patted the younger man on the shoulder. “We are close, like brothers. But that is all.” With that, the man turned and walked off, leaving John standing under a streetlamp, staring after him with his mouth hanging open.

 

* * *

 

He was over at Bane’s again the following Tuesday, flopped on the couch, both of them reading comic books in comfortable silence, when John’s phone went off. He groaned when he saw the caller ID and wondered whether he dared send it to voicemail, before finally giving in and answering. 

“John!” came Selina’s overly-enthusiastic voice. He groaned again and Bane looked at him curiously from where he was sitting in his armchair. “I have great news,” she continued in his ear. 

“Uh-huh,” he said as neutrally as possible. He heard her huff and give up the bubbly routine immediately, knowing by now that it wouldn’t work on Blake. 

“Listen, I’m willing to do you a solid here, buddy,” she said in her normal, sarcastic tone. “Bruce is taking me out for dinner Saturday, probably somewhere way too expensive, but, whatever, he’s paying. Anyway, he has tickets to some opera that sounds really boring and pretentious and he has a box, of course, and wants me to invite whoever I want, and that just so happens to be _you_ and the _guy-you’re-not-dating.”_  

“Um, wow. I don’t know if-” 

“Just ask him,” she interrupted. “He’s sitting right there, yeah?” 

“Well-” 

“OPERA TICKETS!” Selina screamed in his ear and John pulled the phone away like it bit him. Bane gave a raspy chuckle and John sighed. 

“Okay, mission accomplished,” John snarked. “He totally heard that and now I’m deaf in one ear. Thanks.” 

“Ask him, will ya?” 

“Yeah, fine. Just… look, let me call you later, okay?’ 

“Sure thing. Don’t get all sappy with gratitude or anything.” 

“Bye, Selina.” John hung up and gave Bane a weary look. “I don’t know how she’s managed to stay employed at the station all these years.” Bane gave him a small grin, almost shy, and John’s heart just sort of melted. “So, as you heard, she is trying to give us opera tickets.” 

“Us?” 

“Uh, yeah,” John let his eyes flit over to the stack of comics they were making their way through. “She knows that we hang out and she’s been trying to get me to go out with her and the guy she’s seeing, and she wants me to bring a friend so I’m not the third wheel, I guess.” He hazarded a glance at Bane and was rewarded with an almost tender expression flitting across the man’s face before it was gone. 

“I would have to wear a mask,” Bane said, carefully not showing any emotion. “I have one that is not as cumbersome as the gas mask, but it is not subtle. It might be embarrassing.” 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed!” John exclaimed immediately. “I mean, if it bothers you to wear it out in public, then we can always get to the theater early. Bruce has a box, so it will be fairly private. But, if you don’t want to, I mean... I don’t want to push you if you’re not comfortable.” John made himself stop talking before he said anything he couldn’t take back. 

That soft expression had returned to Bane’s eyes and he was studying the younger man intently. “I meant, embarrassing for you,” Bane said, his eyes not leaving John’s. 

“Oh,” John replied. Bane continued to stare until John started squirming on the couch, uncertain of what he should say or do. 

“Alright,” Bane said. 

“You’ll go?” John asked, the happiness in his voice startling him. He wasn’t an opera fan by any stretch of the imagination. He shouldn’t be so excited. 

“If you are willing to take me, than I am willing to attend the opera with you, Officer Blake.” 

Smiling like a doof, John texted Selina that they were, indeed, all going to the opera together.

 

* * *

  

John was nervous when he went to pick Bane up. He was worried about everything from the state of his car to what he was wearing. It’s not like he had much choice about either, but he had still washed and vacuumed the car that morning before making sure that his one nice dress shirt and pair of slacks got ironed. 

He knocked on Bane’s door before realizing that he was a good fifteen minutes early. He heard Bane call to him to come in, his voice just loud enough to reach John through the door. Bane had left it unlocked for him and John found him in the arm chair, the machine running as Bane finished up a breathing treatment. 

John’s brows furrowed in concern. “Did you have another attack?” he asked, moving forward and putting his hand lightly on Bane’s massive shoulder so he could look into his eyes. They were clear and somewhat amused as they stared back at him. He motioned for John to sit down, and once he was perched on the arm of the couch, Bane replied. 

“No, this is a different medicine. It is meant to prevent an attack. I usually use it before I lift weights. The effects do not last very long, but I have backup treatments should they be needed.” Bane gestured to the coffee table where an inhaler and two hypodermic needles were prepped. Blake swallowed and nodded. 

Bane switched off the machine and stood. He wasn’t dressed in a suit - John had already warned both Bane and Selina that he didn’t own anything fancy - but he looked perfectly put together. His shirt was dark, perhaps a deep forest green, though it was hard to tell in the dim light. The fabric stretched over his form, not enough to look tight, but enough to show off his body. It probably wasn’t even all that intentional, John mused, as he watched in a daze while Bane secured his medicine in a small satchel. After all, _anything_ Bane chose to wear would have to yield to all that muscle beneath. The man couldn’t help but look like a fitness-goal “after” photo, no matter how he dressed. 

John had managed to school his features into something _not a leer_ by the time Bane turned his attention back to him. “You look nice,” John said, trying to make it sound natural and not like the major understatement that it was. Bane gave him a warm smile. 

“Thank you, as do you,” Bane returned politely. John stared up at him from the arm of the couch, not remembering in time to keep his eyebrows still, and they had probably formed a pitifully smitten expression on their own. He laughed and stood up, his face returning to it’s “doing something platonic with a platonic friend that I do _not_ daydream about” setting, as they left the apartment. 

“You don’t need the mask?” John asked, as Bane locked the apartment door behind him, a wistful look on his face. John wondered how long it had been since he had locked this door from the outside. 

“Not as yet,” Bane replied. “I have it with me for when the last treatment wears off.” John nodded and they made their way to the stairs and then out to John’s car. The whole frame shifted as Bane settled into the passenger side and John stood outside for just a second longer than necessary, staring over the roof of the car and swallowing hard. 

The drive to the theater wasn’t that long, though the traffic was heavy, and John was grateful that they had left early. He wanted to make sure that Bane was able to get settled, if he so chose, before the theater was swarming with people. He really had no idea what to expect from Bane around crowds. He had only ever seen him interact with Barsad, and they were old friends. 

Picturing all those men in suits and women with fancy hairstyles, a thought occurred to him. “What sets off an attack for you?” he asked, Bane turning to him from where he had been gazing out the window at the passing buildings. “I mean, I just realized that everyone there will probably be doused in perfume and cologne. Isn’t that usually a trigger for people with breathing problems?” 

Bane nodded. “It can be a trigger for me, though my condition is not the same as asthma. Similar, but the damage to my lungs stems from chemical corrosion, and the triggers can be unpredictable.” 

John’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “The war?’ he asked, voice rough. 

“Yes.” There was silence for a few moments. Bane shifted and John could feel his car sway with the motion. “Perfume can be a trigger, though I ought to be unaffected by any airborne irritants for another few hours, then I will wear the mask.” John saw Bane glance at him. “Officer Blake, I have a favor to ask of you, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Sure,” John answered quickly, his gut clenching. 

“If, for some reason, I should be… _unable_ to administer my own treatment, I will need you to inject the contents of the syringe with the red label into my bloodstream. The easiest way for you to do so will be to inject the syringe into my thigh. It is unlikely that I will need such assistance, but in the unlikely event it should be necessary, do you feel comfortable assisting me?” 

“Of course,” John replied, slightly shaken. He knew Bane’s condition was severe, but he hadn’t realized to what extent. 

“I apologize for asking when we are already on our way to the venue, but I was… reluctant to ask earlier.” 

“I get it,” John replied, his brain still reeling. Was Bane seriously _risking his life_ for this? 

“As I stated, it is a very unlikely circumstance,” Bane assured him. John just nodded. 

They made it to the opera house early, despite the traffic. There were only a few people milling around in the lobby when they stepped through the large glass doors that were opened for them by footmen in tuxedos. 

“I feel underdressed,” John whispered to Bane. The huge man ducked his head so that he could bring his ear closer to John, his enormous hand hovering over the small of back, not quite touching. 

He tilted his head to reply, his warm breath on John’s jaw and neck. “Do not be concerned. You are perfect.” John’s eyes shot up to Bane’s face, but the man was already looking out over his head, taking in the building and the theater goers in their finery. 

Heads turned as they walked toward the stairs, half of the gazes concentrating on Bane’s face and the scars, the other half trailing down over his body. One woman, wearing an honest-to-god fur wrap, actually winked at John when she caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up. 

The box was empty when they stepped inside. Selina and Bruce weren’t likely to get there until just before the curtain rose, so they had some time to kill. Though they had been alone for hours on end in Bane’s apartment, this was different somehow, and John felt himself getting nervous. Bane took one look at him and stood again. 

“Come,” he said, “let’s go to the bar and sample the beverages.” 

John snorted and smiled, hopping up and following Bane. “You read my mind,” he said, the tension shattering. 

They hung around the bar for the next half hour, talking and people watching, occasionally chatting with the other attendees. At first, it surprised John how at ease and gracious Bane was around so many strangers. He berated himself, thinking of how polite the man had always been, even in private. He reminded himself that Bane was isolated out of necessity, not choice. John grasped his drink tighter, determined to invite Bane out more often if this was that sort of thing he enjoyed. 

Everyone that talked to them was careful not to mention or stare at Bane’s scars, and he himself seemed unselfconscious about them. John was by far more anxious about it than Bane, wanting to glare at the few people that did a double take of the giant’s face as they passed by. 

They made their way back to the box once the floor started to get crowded with newcomers, John happily buzzed and Bane totally unaffected. They sat next to one another in the private theater seats, no way to avoid the press of their shoulders in the intimate space. They watched the rows fill up on the main floor, the steady hum of voices reaching them as white noise. 

John breathed in deeply, the murmur of alcohol in his blood and brain just enough to transform the buzzing auditorium into something hazy and cozy. He found himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind spending more time in places like this. It was at once so alive and so comfortable, the red seats and the huge stage curtain looming below them in the footlights, the warm press of an arm along his. He liked this. He liked this a lot. 

Bruce and Selina showed up, as predicted, right before the house lights dimmed and the conductor strode out to applause. There was a hurried round of introductions and handshakes between Bane and the newcomers, before the curtain rose and the first performer began to sing. Selina sat on Blake’s right, pinching him once, sharply, to get his attention before making _omg!_ eyes at John, her mouth opening in a parody of shock as she looked between her friend and Bane, who was mercifully focused on the performance and missed the silent freakout happening a seat away from him. 

John finally freed his hands from Selina’s demented grasp and turned back to the stage, intent on paying attention and ignoring his friend’s silent laughing, her body shaking next to his as she giggled. He managed to stay somewhat focused on the music, his eyes flitting over the props and performers, wondering idly how much they had to practice in order to be able to belt like that for hours on end. 

A young singer had a solo just before the intermission, and as the curtain went down and the lights went up, Bane murmured, “What a lovely, lovely voice,” before he seemed to remember himself, turning to John and his friends. 

They talked about the performance and cast, Selina thankfully pretending to be a normal person for Bane’s sake. Bruce and John weren’t fooled for a second, but Bane seemed rather charmed. John refrained from rolling his eyes. 

Blake went to the men's room while he had the chance and, predictably, Selina was hot on his heels. She caught up with him in the stairwell and shrieked, jumping up and down before returning to sanity. “Oh my god,” she said, emphatically. 

“I know,” John said, unable to hide a smirk. 

“He’s, I mean, he’s just so…” 

“I _know,”_ John said again, breaking into an idiotic grin. 

“But you’re not…?” 

“No,” John sighed sadly. 

“But-” 

John shrugged. 

Telepathic conversation over, they made their way to the restrooms, Selina having to wait in line while John was able to slip in and back out without a lot of fuss. She was still standing in line, lip curled at him. John hurried up the stairs, realizing that he had left Bane alone with fucking _Bruce Wayne._  

He found them talking amiably enough, though John could see the tension that had crept into Bane’s shoulders. He dropped down into his seat next to Bane, effectively cutting off their conversation and distracting Bruce, giving Bane the opportunity to discretely take a puff of his inhaler. He felt shifting next to him and, when he next glanced over, Bane was wearing the mask, his eyes closed as he concentrated on breathing. 

Bruce caught John’s gaze and raised his eyebrows in question, nodding over at Bane, a silent “Do we need to do anything?” and John shook his head. Bruce nodded and then excused himself to use the bathroom. Once he was gone, John turned to Bane, who still had his eyes closed.

“How you doing, big guy?’ John asked, carefully keeping the alarm he was feeling out of his voice. Bane knew his condition a lot better than John did, and John had to trust Bane to let him know what he needed. 

Bane’s eyes flicked open and he took in their surroundings quickly, seeing that they were alone. He rummaged in the satchel, getting out the syringe with the blue label. At John’s look of alarm, Bane reached out and gripped his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze and shaking his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in a smile behind the mask. He let go of John and got a tourniquet out of the bag, rolling up his sleeve and turning away from John. Blake tore his eyes off him and looked out over the auditorium, giving the man some privacy. 

After Bane had rolled down his sleeve and put everything away in his bag, he leaned heavily back in the theater chair, joining Blake in staring out at the milling crowd below. Slowly, the pained sound of Bane’s breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling more smoothly. He relaxed then, his shoulders slumping slightly as he got air into his lungs. His heavy arm rested against John’s and the younger man leaned into it, offering his silent support. 

Selina and Bruce came back together, sitting down and talking with each other about the long bathroom lines, again providing a cover of normal conversation that John was grateful for. After a minute of chitchat, Selina turned worried eyes to John, glancing to Bane wearing the mask and back at her friend. “He’s okay,” John mouthed silently. Selina nodded, her brows still furrowed, but she leaned back and turned her attention to her date. 

For the remainder of the performance, John kept his arm pressed against Bane’s on the armrest, feeling his body expand and contract as he breathed. Blake felt as though, so long as he kept up the contact, kept willing the air into Bane’s lungs, that he would be okay. It was a terribly helpless feeling, waiting for each breath, hoping that it was smooth, that it didn’t hitch and drag painfully. He thought about the syringe with the red label in the satchel resting near Bane’s feet. He wondered if he would know when to use it. Bane had said that he had might be unable to do it himself. But what did that _mean?_  

Visions of Bane unconscious on the floor raced through his head and he leaned into Bane’s arm harder, causing the bigger man to turn his attention from the stage and look down at him. _I can’t lose you like that,_ John thought frantically. 

Was it only a matter of time before he knocked on Bane’s door and the man didn’t answer? His throat closed in sudden panic. It was too much, suddenly, what he felt for this man. 

With an extreme effort of will, John focused back on the strutting figures on stage, listening to the words being flung out into the air, the foreign language weaving its own subtle spell. He forced himself to breathe calmly, to relax. Bane had gone rigid next to him, picking up his distress, and John did not want to cause him further discomfort. The next time Bane glanced at him, John was ready with an easy smile. Bane looked at him for a long moment before turning back to the stage. The edges of eyes did not crinkle in a smile, and John had no idea what expression he was wearing behind the mask. 

When the performance was finally over, John heaved a sigh of relief. The four of them chatted for a bit, waiting for the theater to empty out before they made their way downstairs. They parted cheerfully in the lobby, Bane giving Bruce and Selina his sincere thanks, the mask once again off so that he could speak with them. He strapped it back on when it was just the two of them again, walking toward the parking garage. Bane rested his head against the door frame once they were in the car, clearly exhausted and struggling not to show it. John pretended not to notice. 

When they got back to the apartment, John insisted on going up with Bane, even though he said that it wasn’t necessary. They took the dodgy elevator, Bane needing to conserve his energy and his lung capacity. Finally, _finally,_ they were opening up Bane’s front door and Bane was able to slump into his chair, immediately working on setting up a breathing treatment. 

John hovered around him, not knowing what to do, wanting to help but not wanting to irritate Bane. He ended up grabbing a comic book off the most recent stack and flopping on the couch to wait. After about ten minutes, Bane was finally able to get a clean breath. 

“Thank you, John,” Bane said, serious eyes cast over at the cop. “Despite this,” he gestured to the breathing mask, “I had a wonderful time.” John smiled tightly, not trusting himself to speak. Bane sighed. “Tonight was the best possible outcome considering my... condition. Do you understand, John? Tonight was as good as can ever be expected when I choose to leave the apartment. It will never be any easier than this.” 

Bane looked at John until the younger man was forced to drop his eyes and nod. “I understand,” he said. 

After that, there was nothing more he could think to say, so he stood to leave. The hum of the machine faded into the background as John walked out to the hallway. For the first time, John left Bane’s apartment without the other’s eyes following him to the stairs.

 

* * *

 

His bedroom was too quiet, so John shuffled out to his tiny living room, pressing the power button for the TV, only to turn it off again after a few seconds. He wandered into his shoe box of a kitchen, opened the fridge, closed the fridge. He looked at the dishes in the sink, ignored them. He wandered back into his bedroom, looking at the full laundry basket. Sighing, he flopped back down on his bed. 

It was his day off and normally he’d be at Bane’s. It felt weird to still be at home. He had gotten used to doing his laundry after he got in from work and running errands on the way back from Bane’s apartment. He didn’t really need the extra time. Bane had _ruined_ his days off. 

He picked up his phone to text him, only to drop it on the covers again. A moment later it rang and made him jump. Looking eagerly at the caller ID, his enthusiasm dimmed slightly as Selina’s name flashed across the screen. 

“Hey,” he answered. 

“That bad, huh?” she asked, without skipping a beat. John groaned. “Why aren’t you at Bane’s?’ 

“Selina-” 

“Don’t you dare. You are clearly miserable without him, so why are you at home? I mean, I barely tolerate Bruce, and I’m driving to meet him right now, so, what’s your excuse?” 

“It’s not like that-” 

“The _fuck_ it isn’t. I’ve met him now, remember? I’ve seen the two of you together. It is so _like that.”_ John groaned again. “Look, I’m in the car already. I can swing by and hang with you for awhile.’ 

“You have a date with Bruce.” 

“So? What’s he gonna do? Dump me?” 

John snorted. “He’s not smart enough to dump you.” He could picture Selina’s smug smile. 

“He’s smarter than he looks,” she purred, “but not that smart, you’re right.” She sighed into the phone. “You sure you don’t want me to come over?” 

“Yeah, go hang with your ‘not that dumb’ boyfriend.” 

“Hey John?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Bane is great, you know?” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“So why aren’t you at his place right now?” 

John rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know, Selina. It’s complicated.” 

“Doesn’t seem all that complicated to me.” 

“It’s just that, he can’t even leave his apartment without risking dying-” 

“Robin John Blake!” Selina hissed. “If you’re shallow enough to-” 

“No! It’s not that, alright? It’s that he’s _willing_ to do that to himself, just because I asked him to.” John took a deep breath, hiding his eyes in his elbow as he lay on his back on the bed. “What if he gets sick, Selina? What if he pushes himself too hard and he _dies?_ I just… I just don’t know if I can do this.” 

“Yeah?” Selina answered, unimpressed. “And what if he dies alone in his apartment? What if you spend all of the rest of the time you might have had with him moping at home and avoiding him? What’s your regret going to feel like then?” 

“Selina, don’t. I-” 

“No, you know what?” Now she really sounded pissed. “I’m _so sorry_ that you found such a great guy, who you’re obviously head over heels for. I’m _so sorry_ that it’s inconvenient for you to have a chance at something like that.” 

“We’re not even together!” John yelled, jerking upright on the bed. 

“He went to the fucking _opera_ for you, Blake! He told Bruce… you know what? Nevermind.” 

“He told Bruce _what?”_  

Selina sucked in a deep breath, the air whistling past the phone’s microphone. “He told Bruce, in a roundabout way, mind you, that you are the best thing in his life.” 

All the fight went out of John. He fell back on the covers. “Well, he’s sorta the best thing in mine, too.” 

After a long beat of silence, Selina spoke again. “You gonna get your shit together?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, text me later.” 

“Okay.” 

John lay inert for a long time after Selina hung up.

 

* * *

 

“Keep choosing to avoid,” Bane said, squinting down at the computer screen. “Don’t fight her.” 

They were sitting next to each other on Bane’s couch, John balancing his laptop between them as they played Undertale; John controlling the character and Bane telling him how to respond to the monsters. So far, the giant had been surprisingly gentle for someone who loved playing Monster Hunter so much, telling John not to kill any of the pixilated little nightmares they encountered. John couldn’t help smiling to himself. 

He had shown up at Bane’s just after dinnertime, neither of them acknowledging that it was a lot later than he usually dropped by. John had suggested playing the computer game, apologizing that it wasn’t two-player, but Bane didn’t seem to mind, taking to the story and the silly graphics quickly. Once they were at a stopping point, Bane got up to make himself tea, offering to make a cup for John. 

“No, I’m good, thanks,” he replied. “You must really love tea.” 

Bane shrugged. “As a beverage, I find it palatable. However, the main reason I drink it so often is that the steam helps keep my bronchial tubes open, and the heat is soothing to my throat.” 

“Oh.” John watched him walk into the kitchen, wondering for the hundredth time what had happened to him. 

Bane came back a few minutes later, steaming mug in one hand, and resettled next to John, their legs touching from hip to knee as John repositioned the computer between them. An hour later, John was all but curled up next to the large man. He had slipped his shoes off and tucked his legs up next to him on the side farthest from Bane, so that he was tilted toward the large body, his shoulder resting against Bane’s bicep. He snuggled in close and, hunching over the computer, navigated through the game. 

It wasn’t until he felt Bane’s breath on his ear, murmuring which dialogue to chose, that he realized how much he’d encroached on Bane’s space. He pulled back slightly and looked up, muzzy and warm. Ridiculously happy. He smiled up at Bane.  His eyes went to the scarred mouth, then back up to Bane’s piercing eyes. Would it hurt Bane if he kissed him? Because he really, _really_ wanted to kiss him. He bit his own lip, unsure. 

Bane sighed softly and reached up, cupping John’s skull in his hand. His thumb stroked along John’s cheek and he melted into the caress.  “Bane,” he whispered, eyes half closed. 

“It happened during the war,” Bane said, and John looked up sharply, still leaning into the older man’s touch. “I was captured by the other side.” He pulled his hand away, resting it in his lap. “They tortured me. They thought, correctly, that I knew the location of our base. 

“I just had to buy my comrades a day. As soon as they learned I was captured, they would move to a new location.” Bane reached out again, this time tracing along John’s collarbones. “Barsad was in the camp, along with many others I knew well. I held out two days. By then, my captors knew that any information I had was useless. They decided to try out a new weaponized gas on me. They chose to put the canister in my mouth. Payback for not telling them the location of my comrades.” 

John’s eyes had gone wide in horror. His fingers went up to Bane’s face, hovering over the scars, not touching, as though he could somehow protect him from the past. 

“It didn’t kill me, though that is because of Barsad. He and the others raided the camp and retrieved me shortly after the canister was detonated. Barsad kept me alive until they could transport me to a proper hospital, though it took several weeks and I was nearly dead. 

“Eventually, I was cleared to come to the States to have reconstructive surgery so that I could once again chew and swallow. After I was healed from surgery, I went underwent a procedure to have my feeding tube removed and the site closed. 

“I still have to go in periodically. The main reason I was cleared to live in the States is that your government wanted to gather intel on the weapon that was used on me. Apparently, it is not well known.” 

“Bane,” John said again. 

“I will never be able to live a normal life, but as long as I am careful, I _will_ live.” Bane stroked his thick fingers through John’s close-cropped hair. “I know that I do not have much to offer, but-” He was cut off by John climbing into his lap and kissing him, his long legs straddling Bane’s thighs. Bane moaned and pulled him in close, his huge arms encasing John in a solid cage. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” John heard himself saying, over and over, as though trying to make everything he just heard alright again, as if he could go back in time and protect this man. He kissed Bane full on the mouth, encompassing both parts of him- the damaged as well as the whole.

 

They entwined together, kissing and touching, Bane’s large hands, hot like branding irons, wandering over John’s back, the heat radiating through his shirt. John cradled Bane’s shaved head in his hands, moving the powerful man to his liking and feeling the curve of his skull, the thickness of his neck. 

“You are so beautiful,” John heard himself murmuring more than once, as Bane’s hands went to his waist and grasped him, holding his slender body captive on his lap. 

It was when Bane’s touch slipped under his shirt, feeling the slim planes of John’s body, his mouth at John’s throat, that John heard the first warning signs in the painful intake of Bane’s breathing. He pulled back, soothing his hands over Bane’s scalp. “Shhh,” he hushed when Bane tried to pull him back into his embrace. 

Bane turned his face away, clearly distressed and embarrassed by his weakness. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, winded, as though he had run a race. 

“Show me how to do this,” John said, still perched on Bane’s lap, as he gestured to the breathing machine next to them on the end table. “There is _no way_ I’m going to let Barsad show me up and do this for you when I can’t.” John gave him a chaste kiss and leaned over far enough to grab the plastic mask and one of the vials. “Is this the right one?” 

Bane instructed him on how to add the medication, and what the labels on the vials meant. In a few short minutes, John was able to turn on the machine and Bane breathed in deep, getting the vaporized medicine as deep into his lungs as possible. 

John crawled back into his lap once his breathing was no longer distressed, curling up against Bane’s broad chest, his ear next to his heart, listening to the thud of Bane’s blood and the creaking expanding and contracting of his lungs. He could smell the weird ozone scent of the medication, sweet and bitter and also open like a void, unnatural and unearthly. But it meant that Bane could breathe, and for that, John made his peace with it. 

John had been gently rubbing his cheek on Bane’s chest as his breathing had gotten stronger, feeling Bane’s nipple harden at the contact and getting sort of lost in the sensation of it through his T-shirt. He looked up at Bane, from his warm, safe place in his arms, knowing that they could do more now if they wanted, go farther. And he wanted to, oh _god,_ did he want to. Though this… this was good too. 

Bane was looking down at him, pulling off the mask like it offended him, moving to pull John back to his lips. At the last minute, Bane pulled away. “Wait, let me rinse my mouth.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

Bane just gave him a sad smile. “It is not something that I wish you to associate me with more than is necessary.” He carefully untangled Blake from his lap, leaving him warm and mussed amid the couch cushions. He bent over him for a moment, rubbing his hand through John’s short curls. 

Later, in the bedroom, Bane again pushed his hand through John’s short hair, but this time his fingers trembled, both their breath coming fast and urgent, Blake scrambling for purchase against the sweaty sheets. 

“John,” Bane said, his name sounding loud, close, his voice unfaltering though his body shuddered. “John,” he said again, pulling futilely at John’s short hair. Afterwards, John nuzzled into Bane’s broad chest, inhaling his scent and kissing lazily wherever his mouth landed. 

 _It’s going to be okay,_ he thought, luxuriating in the feeling of a large hand petting him, smoothing down his short hair and stroking the skin of his neck, Bane recovering beside him. Blake blinked his eyes, happy at the thought, content, excited. But for now, this was enough, this drowsy, cozy space in Bane’s arms, sheltered and safe, and very much alive.

 


End file.
